Brian's painting and poem unearths the depths of connecting with his inner child through the strokes of his paintbrush in an expansive, nonlinear process.

Madeleine Bazil’s poems toe the line between tenderness and unabashed longing. Intimate, urgent, prismatic—yet unassumingly brief—every word is threaded together with the precision of fate, and every stanza is a carefully-crafted room within the palace of the speaker’s vivid memory.

Jody’s audio poems weave a multi-sensory tapestry that unpacks communal tending, self-compassion, and the shedding of self-doubt.

The gift of Jeni Prater’s poems is their effortless ability to render the mundane a miracle, the invisible seen, and the “unconventional” a beautiful new future. As her words search for life, sifting through the complexities of biology and bureaucracy both, her readers are unwittingly captivated by the tenderness of her tireless pursuit.

In her captivating photo essay, Esther peels back the layers of memory to better understand her immigrant family’s migration, survival, and identity journeys.

Erin Langner is well into adulthood when she is suddenly overcome with nostalgia—and guilt—about her long-since-over childhood obsession with the late R&B icon Aaliyah. In her essay, “The Sound of Absence,” Langner is a reporter and poet both, investigating the psychological phenomena of cultural erasure while also penning a heart-achingly tender ode to the things we love and lose, and the things time begs us to leave behind.

Part elegy, part prayer, part epistolary masterpiece—Amy Rose Lafty’s “My Father Is a Crab Nebula” is as littered with love and grief as the galaxy is replete with stars. You won’t soon find a more intimate glimpse into the cosmic transcendence of a life lost too soon—and the mourning that comes from being left behind.

Inspired by solitary nature walks, Joanne’s immersive digital exhibit delves into the nonlinear journey of returning to the self through their connection with nature.

Every time I look up, it’s still there – the skeleton of the once bustling village where my / father grew up.

Begin with a name.

The summer before I published my first — and so far, only — book, my husband Alonso and I finally saved enough money and time to spend a week in Paris.

Every poem I write opens with a parent. How else / do I bless the ones that birthed me?

We sit across from each other to play the game Othello.

In the house is a horse, or the house itself is a horse.

in the beginning there were no lines no markers of where & what belong to whom / or why